


some kind of heaven

by thinksideways



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Floor Sex, Gratuitous porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, name kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinksideways/pseuds/thinksideways
Summary: He doesn’t know when Hamilton had first started to call himsirin these particular moments, he only knows that it elicits something deep and wanting in him.





	some kind of heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holograms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/gifts), [bluecarrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/gifts).



> holograms and bluecarrot are to blame for this. 
> 
> also, there's a severe lack of fics where Hamilton fucks Burr into the floor while calling him sir. ~~and I'm trying to distract myself from everything I should be doing.~~
> 
> title from Jethro Tull's "At Last, Forever."

This isn’t the first time they’ve ended up like this, tangled.

It happened once, then again, then again -- then Burr quit counting, because the number grew all too large, all too significant. Better not to know. Ignorance is bliss, and lord, the things Hamilton does with - to - him cross the line into blissful.

Hamilton asked - tried to ask - once, saying _what is this, what are we_ , but Burr had cut him off, said _hush_. Just like that. Hush. He was hushing himself as much as he was hushing Hamilton, because his mind offers answers to that question, and they are answers that make him uncomfortable. Like that number.

Better not to know the number. Better not to ask that question.

 _Hush_.

Not that they’re quiet now, though, the room filled with a different kind of noise, the wet sound of mouths colliding. There’s a smudge of ink near Hamilton’s mouth, where an errant, stained finger had lain, and Burr tastes it now on his tongue, acrid. This doesn’t deter him - he’ll find these ink-stains in the oddest places, sometimes, in places where ink shouldn't go. He knows the bitter taste as well as he knows Hamilton.

 

***

 

(At first, he wouldn’t kiss Hamilton. Kissing made it softer, lent an intimacy that unnerved Burr. But Hamilton caught him once, when Burr’s head was muzzy and his limbs loose, and Burr found that once he started kissing him, he couldn’t stop.)

 

***

 

“ _Sir_ ,” Hamilton says, mouth on Burr’s neck, sucking too long on tender places to ensure Burr is left bruised, marked.  It has the intended effect and Burr moans, deep, grinds into Hamilton.

“Yes,” he says, and he isn’t sure if he’s answering Hamilton or expressing his pleasure. Both, likely.

He doesn’t know when Hamilton had first started to call him _sir_ in these particular moments, he only knows that it elicits something deep and wanting in him. Sometimes the appellation is formal and devastating - Hamilton on his knees asking _may I suck your cock, sir_ or Hamilton arching into Burr’s fingers, begging _sir, fuck me sir_.

Sometimes it’s just moaned, soft, apropos of nothing. Like Hamilton wants to say his name, but can’t quite bring himself to.

The word has such a lurid connotation, now. Occasionally he will hear someone say _Mr. Burr, sir_ and the rhythm of it will cause his heart to jitter for a moment, the connection forged over these weeks - months - of meeting and meeting and meeting.

“I want you,” says Hamilton, as if he doesn’t already have him - his hand on Burr, gripping, and Burr hard and giving him quite a lot to grip.

“Yes,” Burr says again. A man of few words. He slides his hands around, sinks his fingers into the pliable flesh of Hamilton’s ass.

“No,” Hamilton says - always the contrarian, “I want --”

He pauses, like he is worried. Or perhaps there is just so much he wants. Hamilton is a man of wanting.

“I want to fuck you.”

“Oh,” Burr says, and he feels odd at the thought, hot and cold at once.

Hamilton’s hand is moving, which causes Burr’s thoughts to blur. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about such things, touched himself in that way, fingers sunk in at strange angles – but to have the idea come to fruition is something else altogether.

Hamilton is bolder now, undoing Burr’s pants, sinking to his knees and looking up, mouth half-parted in an obscene way, eyes never straying from Burrs’ as he takes him into his mouth. Fingers pressing into Burr’s hipbones, Hamilton moves, slow, and Burr groans.

“Well?” Hamilton says, mouth momentarily off of Burr’s cock and Burr thinks Hamilton is at his most convincing like this - on his knees, hair disheveled and sticking to the nape of his neck, eyes dark and heavy on Burr.

And, for the third time tonight, Burr says _yes_.

Hamilton rises back up from his knees, kisses Burr again, divests him of the rest of his clothes.

“ _Sir_ ,” he says again, and the word, the way it’s breathed, goes straight to Burr’s groin, molten, “god, I’ll make it so good for you.”

Burr backs toward the desk, a familiar platform for these ministrations (many nights he’s borne bruises from the edge of it, dark and tender things that appear mid-thigh), but Hamilton stops him, hand on his forearm.

“Not there,” he says, “I’m working on something.”

Indeed, the desk is covered in papers – likely Hamilton’s project before Burr had come in, hungry. Burr considers making a snide comment about Hamilton putting his writing over getting laid, but Hamilton’s hand still cups him, so he bites his tongue.

Hamilton steers Burr to his office chair instead, pushes him down and goes back to his knees. He pulls Burr forward so that his ass rests right at the edge of it.

“There,” Hamilton says, as much to himself as to Burr, and then his head dips and he takes Burr back into his mouth and Burr is momentarily lost in the sensations of it. He leans back further, the wooden edges of the chair pressing into his back, leaving marks, but his focus has gone towards Hamilton and his full, stretched mouth.

Hamilton’s hand moves from Burr’s hip to between his legs, and the tip of one spit-slick finger circles gently at the rim. Burr’s tense, at first, but with Hamilton’s mouth still working – that _tongue_ – his focus shifts and the slow friction of his finger turns from odd to pleasurable. Hamilton’s finger presses in, slow, and Burr exhales. Hamilton rocks his finger, gentle, and it’s not like when Burr’s done it to himself, this is foreign and strange but Hamilton’s finger crooks and drags and Burr moans from it. It's so different, someone else inside him in this way, the angle changed, and Hamilton – _god_ , Hamilton, looking at him, watching, observing, undoubtedly taking notes in his head. Hamilton withdraws his finger, reaches up to open one of the desk drawers, pulls out the bottle of oil.

(The bottle appeared one day in Hamilton’s office, and neither spoke of it, the suggestion – that this was something they prepared for, expected. A routine.)

Hamilton pours a bit of the oil over his fingers, messy, some of it dripping down onto the wood floor, where it will surely stain. But Burr doesn't think of this for long, as Hamilton's fingers are back, drawing gentle circles around his rim, and then the same finger sliding in, slicker this time, going in easier. Hamilton continues to move his finger, sliding in and out, and soon Burr is moaning, and Hamilton adds a second finger.

“ _Fuck_ ,” hisses Burr – it's not painful, not really, but the foreign sensation is odd enough that he feels as if it should be. He's fully aware of the hypocrisy of this, and marvels now at how easily Hamilton had taken Burr’s fingers in their past encounters, opening for two, three, and his cock not soon after.

“So tight,” murmurs Hamilton, appreciative, fingers still moving, still working. He's taken his mouth off of Burr, though his free hand still strokes him lazily. Burr’s only half-hard now, his mind more focused on the fingers inside him, but the light play of Hamilton’s fingers against the ridge of his cock, the swipe of thumb against his head, keep him at well enough attention.

Hamilton keeps moving his fingers inside him and soon it no longer feels uncomfortable, the sensation alters, hones into pure pleasure. Burr moans as Hamilton's crooked fingertips drag across his prostate, the feeling of it jolting up his spine, a new kind of pleasure largely unexplored.

“Think you're ready for my cock?” Hamilton says at last, grinning at him. Burr blinks his eyes at Hamilton, tries to focus, though it's difficult, for Hamilton's fingers are still working at him, which is ten different kinds of distracting.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Burr says, because he wants him, sure, but also because the things that Hamilton’s hand does would make Burr agree to anything, just to keep the sensation going.

However, Hamilton makes no motion of stopping, continues to work Burr open, even returns his mouth back to Burr’s cock, moving his mouth in rhythm with his fingers Burr’s not sure how long he can take it, it’s not even thirty seconds before his hands are in Hamilton’s hair, pulling.

“You’d best…” Burr begins, but his tongue feels thick and words feel far-gone, “go ahead and fuck me now.”

Hamilton sinks down once more, mouth swallowing Burr entirely, and then his mouth and fingers withdraw in near-unison and Burr is left feeling wet, empty.

“Yes, sir,” he says, reddened mouth smiling. He rises up from his knees and kisses Burr, chests flush, grinding into him for a moment before withdrawing. He keeps Burrs’ hands in his, though, pulls him out of the chair – Burr leans into him, his legs are shaking – and then guides him down onto the floor. There’s a rug, thin, and it scrapes against Burr’s back, and he would care about this more if Hamilton wasn’t between his legs, looking down at him, fingers slipping back in again.

“Please,” Burr says – he’s not prone to begging, but Hamilton’s drawn it out of him.

Hamilton withdraws his fingers, strokes himself, adds more oil until everything is slick and messy. He scoots his hips closer, hands on Burr’s thighs, and then Burr feels the heaviness of him, pressing. He breathes, and relaxes, and Hamilton breaches him, just barely. It’s a different sensation than his fingers, denser, a bit thicker. Hamilton’s still, unmoving, and Burr puts a hand on Hamilton’s hip, draws him closer. Taking the hint, Hamilton presses in, just a bit more, and the distance closed drags the head of his cock against Burr’s prostate, and _fuck_ , he can see now how Hamilton will come untouched, sometimes. Hamilton presses further, deeper, and then he is flush against Burr and he’s filled, stretched. Still unmoving, Hamilton leans down, kisses him. Burr kisses back, and moans as Hamilton rocks his hips, just slightly. It’s slow, and a hair’s breadth from hurting, but Burr moves into him.

There’s a tender, almost heartbreaking caution in Hamilton’s movements - still slow, tentative, a different creature than the one who had so boldly sunk to his knees. His movements are unhurried, and he’s watching Burr with something indiscernible in his heavy gaze, something that Burr cannot look upon for long.

“Come _on_ ,” he moans instead, and wraps his legs around Hamilton, drawing him deeper. Hamilton obliges, thrusts forward, burying his forehead into Burr’s neck - thank god - and now he finds a rhythm, still careful, and Burr arches into it, distantly aware of the burn of the rug against his shoulders.

“Fuck Alex, yes--” his sentence is warped into a gasp as the head of Hamilton’s cock slides across his prostate, the angle changed and now Hamilton finds it again and again and Burr’s world narrows down to that sensation.

“That’s it,” Hamilton says, “oh, _sir_.”

The word - always charged - feels even stronger as Hamilton drives deep into him. Burr’s whole body feels strung tight, wound.

Hamilton withdraws, and Burr is left empty. Hamilton pours more oil over his cock, slips his wet fingers back into Burr, twists them slick and Burr rocks into it, feeling helpless and bidden to these sensations, to Hamilton.

Hamilton realigns himself, and this time takes Burr’s ankles on his shoulders. He’s rocked back now, hands on Burr’s hips as he guides himself back in, moans. Burr watches all this through his own haze, the way Hamilton’s eyes are closed, mouth half-open, and wonders if there’s ever been a more beautiful sight.

Hamilton finds his rhythm again, harder this time, driving into Burr in a relentless way that he knows will cause him to ache tomorrow, but now all he feels is pleasure rocketing its way through him.

“You like it, sir?” Hamilton says, and before Burr can answer - _yes_ \- Hamilton takes Burr’s cock in hand and changes Burr’s answer from any coherent word to a guttural groan. Hamilton’s hand moves in time with his cock, stroking, and Burr tries to last but soon --

“Alex, fuck --,” is all he manages before he spills over Hamilton’s hand, and Hamilton fucks him through the orgasm, each drag of his cock against Burr seeming to send another wave through him, and then Hamilton’s moaning too, a few more stuttering thrusts before he cries out and collapses against him.

 

***

 

After, it’s messy. Hamilton withdraws and come leaks out of Burr - a strange sensation. His own come dries tacky on his stomach. Hamilton looks almost as much a wreck, his hair disheveled, cheeks flushed.

Still, amid the mess, Burr smiles.

He wants to kiss Hamilton again, doesn’t know if he should - they usually don’t kiss, after - but Hamilton hasn’t moved much since withdrawing, seems instead to be mildly dazed there between Burr’s legs, so he sits up - cautiously - and places a hand behind Hamilton’s neck, draws him in. And Hamilton lets himself be drawn in, and when their lips meet Hamilton kisses him back and Burr feels a different sort of thrill in his stomach.

They end up like this, tangled.

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me shouting into the void on tumblr @[thinksideways](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [just breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710678) by [bluecarrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot)




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